


Boarding Maneuvers

by Tarn



Series: Things Nautical [2]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:38:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarn/pseuds/Tarn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After five romantic nights, Jack leaves Port Royal, and James, to take the Turners on their honeymoon.  Both men miss the other terribly.  Aside from that things go smooth, until a spectre from Jack Sparrow’s past catches up with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boarding Maneuvers

**Author's Note:**

> New Notes: Written years ago before the sequels. So timeline is divergent from after Curse of the Black Pearl. 
> 
> Original Notes: This one’s a cliffhanger folks. The third is being written so don’t worry. Again going for period accuracy. A Magyar, by the way, is a Hungarian. 
> 
> Thanks to Brigid, Cindy, Merisel and Laura for beta help. An extra thanks to Cindy for the letter idea.

Boarding Maneuvers

The Captain of the Black Pearl looked out over Jamestown’s harbor from the prow of his ship. The island city looked smaller than he recalled it, probably smaller than Port Royal. It was obvious its heyday was past. Like a fine lady who’d lived long and well, she was showing her age. 

Jack smirked. Like her former governor, she was unable to relinquish her past glory. They had been staying alternately at his mansion and that of Mr. McTavish, the plantation owner whose indigo and tobacco had allowed for proper music at the Turner’s wedding. 

The both of them had near fought over who got to host the young couple, and Jack had been invited along with. Most of his crew had been too. Not a one of them would go, however. Not even after four days spent drifting just outside the harbor waiting for a storm to stop. They were clear enough about why as well. The slaves. None of them could stomach setting foot on land worked by owned men.

Jack understood it. His freedom loving crew was made up of those who had endured one kind of slavery or another. Whether it be the institution of black slavery, indentured servitude, penal forced labor or the confines of social station. Gibbs often said that the British Navy had been a kind of ownership and they had a handful of naval deserters among them who agreed.

And Anamaria? The child of former slaves who’d resettled in the wilds of Providence Island after the revolts there, she held her freedom more dearly than any of them. She’d not only escaped the life her parents had endured, but had also avoided the more subtle slaveries of womankind in the Caribbean, that of wenching and whoring.

Jack’s thoughts on the matter had long been known. He’d a reputation of offering freedom and a place on his ship to any slaves taken captive as part of another ship’s plunder. The ones that had stayed on the Pearl before he’d lost her hadn’t repaid his kindness very well, but he still stood by the offer.

Still, courtesy to the Turner’s demanded that he accompany them. Elizabeth had too romantic an outlook on things like piracy and plantations, so she didn’t see the downsides. Not that the downsides of piracy ever caused him trouble either, but he thought the evils of plantation life far worse. It was beginning to occur to Elizabeth though. You could tell by the way her eyes went dark and her mouth became pinched whenever she set eyes on one of the unfortunates whose sweat and blood had filled their host’s coffers. It was as though she was holding back an untidy rush of anger. Will put up with his obvious distaste just enough to keep the peace. He knew that if he said anything, his wife would explode.

Ah well, they would be leaving soon enough. If they were going to get to Boston any time soon, they’d need to be going. The weather further north wouldn’t be getting any better. It was well into September already. The Pearl was fast but not faster than a Massachusetts Bay winter.

“Captain.” Gibbs moved up behind him. “Marty wants ta’ know if he can fire up the forge.”

Will had insisted on setting up a small, movable forge on the Pearl. It was an idea that had concerned Jack at the first. ‘You want to put a big brazier of hot coals and heat great piles of metal on my wooden ship?’

The lad had argued that some naval vessels had their own forges and it was a huge help with repairs. It meant that you didn’t have to wait to dock in order to fix a ruder chain or mend swords or other such things. So he’d said yes. Will set up his floating smithy and went about trying to teach the crew how to work metal. Marty had taken a shine to it right off. When they’d arrived in Jamestown, Will and the little man had immediately gone out to purchase stools and a smaller anvil to better accommodate Marty’s stature.

“Not without William. I still don’t trust that thing. Tell him not to fret; we’ll be leaving soon. Two days at most. Any longer and I’ll go balmy.” Jack looked back over the harbor. He couldn’t wait to get back on the sea. The trip to Boston shouldn’t take more than five or six days, barring storms, but he looked forward to it anyway. Too much time spent on land made him jumpy.

“Aye, sir. We’ll all be glad to be on our way. I’ll inform the crew.” Gibbs left. It was early enough in the day that most the Pearl’s crew was still on board rather than out enjoying the pleasantries of a wharf tavern.

He’d been happy when the whole crew had chosen to sail the Turners to Boston and back. He’d given them the option of disembarking at Nassau with their share of the treasure already taken from Isla de Muerta. If they left, they forfeit their claim to the rest of the swag there and lost the safety that the Pearl offered.

With his Letter of Marque, Jack was free to come and go as he pleased as long as he didn’t prey on English, and more recently, French ships or ports. Not really a problem as Spanish, Dutch, and Portuguese ships often had the better loot.

Not that he had to take any ships at this point. He had more wealth than he could spend easily and he was being paid for this little trip to boot. Jack was again struck by how good things were going; his ship his own, its crew loyal and happy. What more could a man wish for?

The answer was so simple it made him laugh. Yes, James at his side would make life that much more perfect. James in his bed was even better. He missed the man something awful.

Their five days of secret loving had been too short for his liking. But in those stolen nights of delight, Jack had lost himself. He was fast falling in love with the infuriatingly stuffy Commodore. How he put discarded clothes away before lovemaking, or right after, if passion got the better of him. How he had a set routine for the morning and could not be persuaded to shirk his duties at the fort for even a day.

That hadn’t been so bad, really, it meant he spent his days with Will and Elizabeth, socializing and making ready for their voyage. At night though, it was always to Norrington’s for late hours of sex and sweetness. And no one asked him where he spent his nights, not the Turners and not his crew. Well, not most of his crew. 

Gibbs had guessed. After a dinner at the governor’s house where Gibbs, Anamaria, James and the Turners were in attendance, the sailor had confronted him as he readied to leave the house for the night.

“Yer going to him, ain’t ya, sir?”

“Him who?” Jack had tried to deflect the question, but it didn’t work.

“Norrington! Don’t ya try to deny it, either, Jack. I saw how ye both looked at each other during dinner. Scandalous it were. You’ve gone and made yerself his boy.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve caught me. But it’s my business if I have and no one else’s.”

“So that’s what this be all about then? The clemency, the Letter of bloody Marque, all because the Commodore’s a sodomite and yer his…”

Jack’s boot knife was at Gibbs’ throat before the word came out. “I dare you to say it. Whore. That is what you were about to say, right? James Norrington’s whore. You’re saying I became his catamite to curry favor with the Navy.”

“I won’t say it, but I am think’n it.” Gibbs scowled. Jack pulled the knife away and returned it to his boot sheath.

“Fine. Just remember, next time you think about saying it, who I am. Captain Jack Sparrow. Your Captain, as long as you intend to stay on the Black Pearl.” 

“Aye, sir.” He didn’t sound very convinced, however.

Jack had returned to prettying himself up for James. “Now listen here, James and I are lovers, but I came by the romance honestly. Same as I did this clemency and my Letter of Marque. James didn’t make a move till after Swann started setting up things. I went to the Commodore’s bed because I wanted to. Savvy?’

“It’s not right, Jack. It’s not natural.” Gibbs sat down heavily on the dressing table stool.

“Which bothers you more: the fact he’s a man or that he’s British Navy?” Jack set his hat on his head and gave his friend a questioning look.

Gibbs smirked. “Aye, you made yer point there. If it was young William, or one of the mates on the ship, I’d likely just shrug and figure it was part of yer queer nature. But the Commodore, sir? How did that happen…and why?”

“I don’t understand it any more than you do, Gibbs. I don’t even know if it’ll last longer than our current stay in Port Royal. It’s still my business though. You’re to tell no one, do I make myself clear?” Jack was in full Captain mode, dressed and ready to go.

“Aye, Captain. You be careful, lad. If he breaks yer heart, don’t you be noble about it.”

Jack had asked what made Gibbs think he still had a heart to be broken, but the look the man gave him said that he knew more about his capacity for heartache than his Captain guessed.

Maybe he was right. After weeks at sea, with only the memory of James’ sweet touch to keep him warm at night, Jack missed him more than any of his previous lovers. And it had only taken five days to become so besotted.

“Jack, you’re losing your touch.” He shook his head and laughed at himself. And what did it matter if he was falling for the man? He was Captain Jack Sparrow. If he wanted to wander around his ship pining for far away naval officers, then that’s what he’d do. It was better than sitting in some windbag’s well-appointed parlor, sipping port and listening to vapid conversation and a harpsichord.

“Damn, I need some rum.” Jack left the deck to go below and find the spirit. Some men might prefer tea or coffee to start the day, but he was a firm believer in the medicinal aspects of grog. Not that he let what the British navy called grog on any ship of his. Weak, watered down stuff, even if the oft-included limes did seem to help keep the scurvy away. Still, to bastardize rum like that was a travesty, to be sure.

He noticed as he passed below deck that many of the men had pipes in their mouths, some simple clays and others of fine briar and meerschaum, even some of carved ivory. One of the benefits of being moored in Virginia was the men could get high quality tobacco cheaper than they could in the islands. The leaf from Cuba was better, but deeply taxed. More so by the fact that Spanish merchant ships ran so heavily armed.

Jack had never understood the lure, either of the pipe or snuffbox. He’d smoked both hashish and opium while in the Orient and found them powerful compelling. As interesting as the experience had been nevertheless, in the end they couldn’t hold a candle to salt-air and a slug of proper rum. 

He had rum enough in his cabin, but he wanted to avoid the room. The memory of the one time he’d slipped aboard the ship with James during their whirlwind romance came back to him whenever he did. How the man had fair begged to be taken on a pirate ship by its Captain. How he’d had to shove a stocking in his James’ mouth to keep the whole ship from hearing. Between that and the last desperate kiss they’d shared in the room under the pretense of the Commodore double-checking Jack’s course to Jamestown, he was plagued by sweet remembrances. Even the name of the port city made him long for his lover. 

“Good day to ya, sir.” The cook, Jory, smiled at him as he entered the galley. Jory was among those who had joined the crew after the tangle with Barbossa and the gold. He’d told Gibbs to find him a man who knew his way round a kitchen, and the man had more than delivered. Jory was a wizard with dried meats and spices. The food on the ship had probably never been better.

“Rum and be quick about it, Jory man. Oh, and good morning to ya.” Jack enjoyed being unpredictable with his crewmembers. The longer anyone sailed with him, the more used to his idiosyncrasies they became. The time before it had driven them to mutiny. This time they just seemed to be going as fey as he was. A good sign.

“Aye. Rum it is. Nothing else, sir? Tea, toast or porridge?” The cook was always trying to get Jack to ingest more in the morning than rum. Usually it worked.

“No, Jory, I broke my fast at Mr. McTavish’s stately plantation before coming aboard. The cook sends her regards, and her recipe for batter-fried fish and fowl. Also got her to part with the one for sausage gravy, though I have not a clue how you’ll get your biscuits as light and airy.” Jack pulled the roll of paper from a pouch next to his scabbard.

He’d been up rather late with McTavish’s cook, writing down cooking instruction as the woman spoke. She couldn’t read or write herself, but she’d a mind sharp as any blade in her kitchen. How anyone could claim those born of Africa were of inferior intellect, Jack still couldn’t fathom.

“Oh, thank you. The way you and young Will have been carrying on about her food, I was getting a mite jealous.” Jory was proud of his work; cooking on a ship wasn’t easy, but he tried to make it an art.

“You’re very welcome. Now where’s that rum?” Jack snapped. It was in jest, of course. Part of his way of bantering with his crew. Jory hopped to with a smile, filling one of Jack’s favorite pewter tankards with dark liquor and handing it to him, along with an orange. They’d bought a few crates before leaving Port Royal; with any luck they’d keep during the whole trip.

Jack sat and peeled the fruit, dipping a wedge in his rum now and again. He was in too thoughtful a mood, really. He kept thinking about James, wondering what he was up to. Probably already at the Fort, drilling marines and filling out forms. The one letter he gotten before he’d sailed out of the safe range for his pigeons had told him the Navy had approved his darling’s request for a new ship, and were commissioning the HMS Perseverance to him. Stupid name for a ship if you asked Jack, but the Navy loved those sort of names. Dauntless, Interceptor, Courage, Apathy and other symbolic word rubbish. If he had kept the Interceptor, he’d have named it the Shooting Star, or the Comet, or Bob. Anything but the bloody Interceptor.

Ah well, James was probably doting over his new ship. His Commodore loved the sea as much as Jack did. James was ill suited to a desk, yet he seemed stuck behind his a powerful lot. Jack had half a mind to cause some trouble, so the officer in command of the port to which his Letter of Marque was connected would have to come deal with it. Oh, what a lovely thought.

Jack smiled.

“Thinking about your sweetheart, sir?”

The Captain blinked at his crewman. “What? What makes you think I have one?” 

“Oh, just the way you’ve acted since we left Port Royal. A little distant and moony, like your mind is somewheres else.” Jory was peeling potatoes at the next table. “No business of mine who it is, sir. But I’m not the only one who’s noticed. There’s quite a bet going among the men as to who you’re pining for.”

Jory had been too careful with pronouns. But then Jack had a well-known reputation for flitting back and forth between the sexes. Most counted it a rumor, though not an improbable one.

“You can tell them it’s a bet no one is likely to collect on. The Pearl’s my best girl and she’s a mistress more jealous than the sea.” Jack picked up his tankard and the last bit of orange before winking at Jory and grinning his wide golden grin.

“Aye sir. I’ll pass it on.” Jory returned his smile, his missing teeth making it oddly feral.

Jack left the mess with a flourish of sash. He was not in as jaunty a mood as he was showing. The men had noticed his pining, moping about the Pearl like a lovesick idiot. Damn.

He walked into the stateroom and shut the doors with a loud snap. Fine. If he was going to be plagued by melancholy, he would just wallow in it.

Jack was tired of Jamestown and glad to be leaving soon. He wouldn’t be going where he really wanted to, but oh well. Sitting down at his desk, he moped into his tankard. The rum was helping his mood, but not as fast as he wished.

This funk wasn’t going away on it’s own. He should not have let himself think about James; it wasn’t healthy to be so preoccupied. Not for him. Not for Captain Jack Sparrow.

“Oh, bloody hell.” He stood up and walked to where his pigeons were cooing in their cage. If he was going to obsess about the man, he was going to share it. Jack coaxed out the bird he’d trained to find James. She had already traveled from Port Royal to bring a message from his lover. Hopefully it would find it’s way back to the man.

He brought the bird back to his desk and opened the door of the little cage he had there. The pigeon went right for the seed dish and started eating. “I hope you can get this to him. I’m counting on you, little birdie.”

The pigeon cooed at him and retired to the seed. Jack took it as a good sign. He pulled out a few sheets of his best paper and flipped up the lid of the inkwell before dipping in his quill.

With the ink dripping spots on the paper, Jack brushed the feathered end of his quill over his mustache. How to begin was the question. He shrugged and started writing.

“Dearest James, 

Ye gods man! I want you! I’m loony with the thought of it. It reminds me of this time I took too big a puff of opium smoke in this Singapore den and quite lost my way. You know what I mean, mate? Intoxicating. Like I’m a drunken fool, stumbling around in the dark. I can’t even write straight. Look at how slanted these sentences are! It’s madness.

Gorblimey, James! If you were here right now, on my ship, in my control, I’d strip you bloody naked and have my terrible way with you on the deck. For Christ’s bleed’n sake, it’s intolerable.

Or maybe I’d cut your clothes off you. That’s a thought. I’d pull my little boot knife and slice the shirt from your shoulders fast as breathing. And if I nicked your lovely skin, I’d lick your blood from the cut like a demon, just to get a taste of you. From there, my lips could find your chest and wet each brown hair with a flick of my tongue. And don’t worry that I’d forget your pretty little nipples, oh no. Them I’d tongue till you’re a wriggling mess under me. 

What next, you ask? Well, next I’d kiss right down to your navel and push my tongue right in to lap and squirm. Yes, squirm. Just like you’d be squirming to get more. Damn… need more ink.

There. See how thick the letters get with new ink? Not as thick as you must be, your breeches are fair bursting, I bet. I’ll just have to cut away the laces and free whatever is begging to be let out. See how the knife rends the fabric of your trousers to reveal those strong, pale thighs you’ve got. It’s a brilliant sight, James. Not so brilliant as the heavy weight under your drawers, though. Cut them off too, I would, to get to what’s inside.

And once I’ve got your cock in front of me, once it’s hot length is right before my eyes, I’d give it a little kiss. Just a small one to start. The lightest of pecks. Before I drag my tongue over the pretty purple head and swallow you bloody whole. Dear god, I can almost feel you now, your thick cock pressing into my throat. My nose buried in your short hairs, breathing you in. What a scent. Sandalwood soap and sweat. I want my mouth on you. I want you buried so deep down my gullet that it’s driving me crazy. 

I’d suck you till I could barely breathe and beg for more, dammit. Until you’ve exploded and flowed into my mouth like a bloody waterfall. And I’d gulp it all down like a good little strumpet. 

But I’m not done yet, oh no. Next I’d crawl up your body to kiss you so hard, let you taste yourself. While my hands lift your legs and you open yourself up for the taking, all wanton like. And I don’t have to prep you, James, since I know you’re all oiled and ready for me. Ready to feel my cock stab into you hard. Ready for the fuck of your life. 

Oh, how you’ll buck under me, and shout my name. How you’ll beg for it, weeping with the pleasure. Yes, James. I’ll give you what you need; I’ll bugger you senseless. I’ll pull at your rod as I fill your tight arse. You’re hard again, a course. So hard, so needy. And I’ll give it to you, over and over till the joy of it makes us both scream and carry on. Until we’re shouting so loud the whole of the Caribbean knows that I like nothing quite so much as fucking my Commodore. His bloody Majesty in London will know it. We’ll make hardened sailors blush, we will.

And once we’ve scandalized all of Britain and her colonies, then and only then we’ll both release in a flood of wasted seed. So much the Pope will brand us the worst of the sinners. It’s not wasted, though. Anything I pump into you isn’t wasted. Best place for it, I say.

And now, spent and languid, we’ll crumple together into a muddle of flesh and bone. We’ll smile and laugh and hold each other till sleep drags us down to dreamland. 

Sweet dreams, James. I hope I’m in them.

Your Jack.”

Jack blinked as he let the quill fall from his hand. Three pages of wild script stared up at him from his desk, all written in a mad rush of longing. How could he send that? If it were intercepted, James would find himself stripped of his rank, his uniform and his fancy hat. Worse yet, buggery was likely still a hanging offense in the Navy. Definitely if you were being buggered by a pirate.

Or a privateer, for that matter. It was a letter that could get James in a lot of trouble. Which was all the more reason to send it. James could always claim that the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow was trying to discredit him. That they had a long rivalry going on and this was all part of the fight. 

No one would believe it. Nothing that filthy could be written from anywhere but the heart. But he couldn’t not send it, not after all the moping and pining. He’d have to think up a way to keep it safe.

Just then, however, he’d more important matters to attend to, and sadly, no James to share them with. It couldn’t be helped, but at least he had the comfort of imaging his lover’s reaction to the letter.

And that was exactly what he thought about as he shut the door of his cabin behind him and started to peel off his breeches for a little needed self-pleasure.

* * *

James gaped at the parchment in his hand. His morning had been boring as hell. Every morning had been since he’d taken that ridiculous fall down one of the hatches on the Perseverance. The fall had given his ankle a nasty twist and bruised up his leg and side pretty badly. The fort surgeon was optimistic that he’d only be laid up a week or two. Still, a bad twist was nothing to scoff at. It had already swelled up to twice its size by the time they got him back to the harbor. And it was only the first voyage of the new ship. Not really a voyage at all. They were just taking her round the island to get a feel for her. She was a fine ship, better than the Interceptor in many ways. Jack would approve. 

James had been quite enjoying himself. He didn’t get to take the helm much anymore, too much paperwork and bureaucracy to be dealt with. And now he didn’t even have that. All he had was a stack of books he wasn’t reading and an injured right leg. What was worse, the only reason he’d been so stupid as to fall though an open hatch on the bloody ship was that he’d been daydreaming about Jack. Fantasizing that the pirate was boarding his new ship to take him hostage and force him to perform countless sex acts on his new Captain and master. Thus distracted, he hadn’t seen the hatch carelessly left open. Lieutenant Gillette had made to find and punish the seaman involved, but James would hear none if it. It was his foolishness alone that had caused the fall. No one else need be reproved for it. He should have been more careful about his steps on a ship he hadn’t learned the layout of yet.

Three days later, with his ankle bandaged and resting on a pillow, and a cup of tea cooling next to his dozing form, he did not expect the soft cooing of a pigeon on his windowsill. Getting up and hobbling over to the window wasn’t easy, but if that was the bird he thought it was, he couldn’t wait. Jack might be in trouble.

The top sheet of paper contained only a quick scribble about keeping the pigeon with him till Jack got back to Port Royal, since he was far out of her return range. It also stressed that he be careful and maybe destroy the letter inside once he was finished with it. It was signed only ‘I miss you’.

It was that second letter that was making James gape. He sat back down after putting the bird in the cage Jack had given him, his eyes not leaving the stream of degrading smut that graced the pages. The writing was erratic and messy, but readable. Jack’s hand might have been shaking as he wrote it. James’ were as he read it, read each wonderfully dirty word. Even as rough and crude as it was, James could not help his hand slipping into the folds of his robe and under his nightshirt. He dragged the hem up and worked into his underdrawers to wrap eager fingers around his cock.

The letter was base in its eroticism. Vulgar even. Not the kind of first love letter one hopes for. But James knew that his lover wasn’t the sort for flowery prose declarations of affection or boring accounts of his day-to-day comings and goings. If Jack were going to sit down and write a love letter, the motivation would almost always be sexual.

Not that James was disappointed with the note. Not at all. With his eyes darting over the scrawl and his hand flying over his penis, he wasn’t in a mind to lament the lack of poetic platitudes in the text.

The images the words conjured were startling. James gasped at the thought of Jack lapping blood from his skin. And the honesty of the man’s lust for him, of all people, made him tremble.

It was as though the thin leaves of paper had brought Jack to him. He pressed the parchment to his chest as he stroked himself, the last sentence he’d read echoing through him as the scene described in the letter played out in his head. He could almost feel Jack’s mouth on him. The imagined sensation then shifted to the fantasy of his lover’s cock pressing deep into him. 

So easy to dip his fingers in the pot of salve Mrs. Havadem had left on the tea trolley with the rest of his fresh bandages. Easy also, to let the slick digits slid into his body in mockery of the act outlined on the page. Both his hands moved now to the beat of his blood, his lip caught between his teeth to muffle any moans of pleasure lest his housekeeper think he was in distress. What a sight she’d be witness to if she did come in to help her wounded master. James, his legs apart and his hands lost inside the linen confines of underdrawers. His body shuddering in delight as the pages of a letter shook on his chest, threatening to fall away from him with each jerk. 

If she had walked in, James likely would not have noticed. He was caught up in the dream image of Jack over him, filling and completing him, as the King and the Pope watched in abject horror at the carnal display. Let them watch. Let them feel the covetousness want caused by seeing anyone as beautiful and bright as Jack with anyone but them. 

For James suddenly felt that Jack belonged to him. That even across miles of open sea, they were linked by their desire for one another. Somewhere, maybe sailing along the coast of the colonies toward Boston, Jack was thinking about him. Most likely thoughts not fit to print, but that wouldn’t stop Jack.

Jack’s words, and the images coupled with them, were pushing him toward a crescendo of brilliance. James was close to release, close enough that his body writhed and his hips bucked, sending the stimulus of his lust fluttering to the floor. Pain bloomed along his injured leg, but it was not sufficient to destroy the glorious sensations occurring in other parts of his body. Sensations that were quickly spreading throughout him, enveloping him in warmth and pleasure. He moaned the name of the man who, even from so far away, was bringing James to the height of ecstasy.

Only Jack could do that. Only Captain Jack Sparrow could send a piece of himself, emblazoned on paper, to drive James direct to rapture. His body quaked as the eruption of delight streamed out to soak into the fabric of his underclothes. James gasped, panting to find his breath again.

The serenity that followed was deep, sweet and total. James found himself grinning stupidly. Yes, his side hurt, and his ankle, but he didn’t care. This was beyond any of the other private moments of pleasure he’d allowed himself since Jack had left. Perhaps because he had more than memory to fuel the act this time. He had Jack’s own words. His very thoughts and desires set down on paper.

James reached down to pick up the sheets that had fallen to the floor. He brushed his soiled fingers over the words on the paper before pressing the pages to his face. Yes, it even smelled like Jack.

“Damn.” He uttered aloud. James grabbed the cane leaning against his chair and stood up. Quietly he folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket of his robe. With a stern look on his face, he used the cane to walk to the basin and wash his hands, then splashed his face with some water and readjusted his clothing.

Next he limped his way into his study and secreted Jack’s letter into a lock box on his desk. No one but he had the key, so there was no worry that anyone else would see it. James then returned to his chair and settled down. During the whole time, from hand washing to the desk to the chair, he’d been fighting a little itch of uncertainty that was making itself known in his brain.

James pushed the doubt away from his conscious mind for hours after. Mrs. Havadem came upstairs to draw his weekly bath and Kendricks helped him into the tub. He washed silently. Was dried, re-bandaged, dressed and returned to his chair equally silently.

Neither housekeeper nor manservant commented on the pigeon cooing in its cage. A pigeon that had not been there that morning. Mrs. Havadem just fed it as she had before he’d sent it to Jack with a letter of his own. James wondered just how much they knew. Jack and he had been careful, but neither of his servants were fools. Could they know his secret and yet continue to work for him in spite of it?

James shoved that thought to the same ignored spot where that other unacknowledged worry was hiding. He might have continued to mope had Kendricks not knocked to announce a visitor.

“Weatherby! Do come in. I’m sorry I can’t stand to greet you.” James smiled at his friend as the man entered the room, happy for any distraction. “Kendricks, fetch a chair for the Governor.”

“Thank you. How is the leg? Are you following Dr. Jenkins’ orders?” Mr. Swann sat down in the offered chair.

James snorted. “For the most part. I’m sure he’d like me to stay off my feet more than I am, but one gets so bored just sitting. Mrs. Havadem will be serving my lunch soon, if you’d like to join me?”

“I’d like that very much.” James nodded to Kendricks as the Governor continued. “Meals have been so lonely since Elizabeth left. The whole house feels empty, in fact, which is in part why I called today.”

“Oh?” James had the strangest moment of panic. The oddest fantasy that the Governor was about to make advances toward him came over him. The absurd idea that Weatherby’s whole motivation for encouraging a marriage between him and Elizabeth was to bring the object of his secret desires closer to him. Yes, it was absurd.

“I was wondering if I might ask your counsel on a personal matter.” Weatherby fiddled with his gloves. “A romantic matter.”

James stiffened. “Continue. Though I’m hardly the best person to offer advise on romantic matters. I was rejected the first time I proposed marriage to a lady.” ‘But accepted the first time I proposed sodomy to a man.’ He let that thought stay carefully inside.

Weatherby grinned. “True enough, but I find I lack for other confidants. You see, for some time the widow Mrs. Fowler has been making overtures toward me. She has made it very clear that she’d be well inclined to a relationship if I were to approach her.”

‘Twit.’ James thought. To think that he had actually entertained the notion for even a moment that Governor Swann might be enamored of him. It was ridiculous. Just because he was a sodomite, didn’t mean everyone else in the Caribbean was as well. “So why haven’t you? Approached her that is.”

“Well... Elizabeth was seven when her mother died. It’s just been me and her since then. I feared that a stepmother might create undue tension. My daughter is headstrong, as you know, James, and many of the women who have shown an interest in me have been equally opinionated. I seem to attract that sort of women.” He smiled. A funny, mournful smile, James thought. “Honestly, I feared that two women of said nature, sharing one household, would have proved a recipe for disaster.”

James could see that. He had been wondering about how things were going on the Pearl for that very reason. Elizabeth’s and, if Jack’s stories were true, Anamaria’s stubbornness must be causing a right bit of mayhem. Top that with Jack’s blasé approach to everything, and Turner’s barely out grown mousiness, and things got truly frightening. Not that Jack’s letter gave any indication of trouble. All it indicated was that Jack was a lecher, and that he already knew.

“So, now with Elizabeth gone, I can pursue Mrs. Fowler if I so choose.” Weatherby just looked at James, not saying more.

“Yes, you can.” He waited for more, but nothing more came. “Weatherby, help me. Maybe it’s the pain in my leg, but I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Oh, forgive me. I was just making sure that you had no intentions toward widow Fowler before I made an attempt at courtship.” The man’s face was plain, matter of fact, as though his statement made perfect sense.

But it didn’t. “And what makes you think I have any interest in Mrs. Fowler?”

“Well, there has been some discussion about town that you’ve been rather a changed man since my daughter’s wedding, and people have been speculating that it’s due to a romance. Forgive me, but I noticed you speaking with Clara at the wedding. You’d been seated next to her at the dinner, and you even danced with her a few times. Given the gossip, and those circumstances, I thought it prudent to ask before making any attempt at courtship. I take it I am in error?”

Oh, bloody hell. People were talking; they just didn’t know what they were talking about. They knew he was a lovesick simpleton, but they had no idea over who, which was very good. “You are. I have no intentions or interest in Mrs. Fowler. You are free to court her as you see fit. I wish you luck, in fact. She’s a charming woman.”

“Splendid. Thank you, James. Thank you very much.” Kendricks thankfully choose that moment to announce lunch. He moved to help his master to the study, where a small table had been set for two.

“I hope you don’t mind, Weatherby, but with this contrary leg, I find my meals are easier to take in my study.”

“Oh, not at all. Thank you again for your hospitality.” They sat and started on the meal. After a few comments on the tenderness of the duck, Weatherby cleared his throat dramatically. “If you do not mind me asking, James. Is the rumor true? Is there some romance you’re conducting in secret that has lightened your heart?”

James snorted. “Now I know where Elizabeth gets her idealistic notions. Really, Weatherby, do I look like a man in love?”

The older man studied him a moment, then smiled. “Yes, you do at that.”

Green eyes blinked wildly in surprise, and James had to stop chewing a moment to keep from choking. He sipped some wine, then started again on the bit of turnip he’d just put in his mouth. “Do I?”

“Yes. It’s hard to explain, but there is a glow about you. A look of contentment. Elizabeth and William wandered around my house with that look before the wedding, so I got rather used to seeing it.” Swann poured a little gravy over his duck and sopped up the brown pool with his bread. “Who this secret beloved is, I haven’t a clue, however. None of the ladies of Port Royal have a corresponding look.”

James caught himself looking out the window to catch a glimpse of the sea. “No, I expect not.”

Weatherby looked like he was waiting for more, but he didn’t get it. “In any case, rumors are flying everywhere about you and this mystery woman, James. Some have even gone so far as to suggest a dalliance with that lovely pirate woman on Jack Sparrow’s ship. Can you believe it? You and a pirate?”

His goblet served as a good barrier to hide the rush of color in his cheeks. James took a deep drink of his wine; rather wishing that is was some stronger spirit. “It is a mad notion, at that. Me falling in love with a pirate? Lunacy!”

A notion made even more insane by the fact that James was doing exactly that, but the absurdity was what kept him safe. Governor Swann merely chuckled at the concept and returned to his meal. The conversation switched to safer subjects and they finished the pleasant lunch before long. Weatherby promised to call again, and James wished him luck with his romance.

Alone again, James let that nagging worry finally come forward. That was the trouble, wasn’t it? He was in love with Jack. Wild, mad love. The sort that led women to subservience and men to jealousy. The feeling that he owned Jack, that the man belonged to him, was startling. He hadn’t wanted to own Elizabeth, had he? No. In fact he’d always detested how oafish husbands spoke of their wives as though they were property. A wife should be a partner, shouldn’t she?

And was Jack a partner? Was he the sort of person one entered into a commitment of any kind with? They hadn’t talked about fidelity before they’d parted. The idea hadn’t occurred to James, and he had no clue about Jack’s thoughts on the matter.

All the times Jack had evaded questions, all the things he wouldn’t share, came back to haunt James. The names of past lovers, the tales behind the scars, how he’d come to be captain of the Black Pearl and acquire the compass that led him to Isla de Muerta. He’d tell none of it to James, even after the other man had given the whole, rather dull, story of his life.

But then, relating a life of crimes and high adventure to someone who had just recounted years of lawful duty fighting against the same sort of criminals you yourself are, probably didn’t appeal to Jack. James could hardly blame him for not wanting to share. Still, it bothered him.

And then there was the letter. He was in Jack’s thoughts, to be sure, but the shape those thoughts took was disquieting. Jack missed his company in bed, missed having a willing and eager body to use. That was the place he held in Jack Sparrow’s heart. He was a vessel for his seed, an outlet for his overactive lust. But anything else? A companion? A friend? James didn’t know if he held that status.

And yet the intensity of Jack’s desire, his longing, said something, didn’t it? The man was in a state of frustration over him. He’d said it himself, ‘loony with the thought of it’. If Jack was just randy, he could have paid a whore or found short-term companionship with a willing member of his crew. Jack was likely not the only person of their ilk on the Pearl.

From the sound of the letter, though, he wasn’t doing any of that. It really made one think the man was pining, mooning about his ship with James’ name constantly on his lips.

If that were so, then he had to mean more to Jack than a plaything. Would anyone but a besotted fool risk one of his precious messenger birds, and the reputation of the intended recipient, just to tell a lover he wanted to fuck him senseless?

Jack missed him, was as fixated on him as he was on Jack. James laughed at it all. A pair of daft simpletons they were. Yes, Jack’s affection manifested sexually. He was a scoundrel and a pirate. James couldn’t even fathom what a chaste love letter from Jack would be like. Boring as shit, probably. He couldn't imagine Jack as chaste in the first place.

“Oh, bloody hell. You’re right, Jack, I do think too much. Stay safe, my love, wherever you are.” James nodded at the open window, sending the prayer to the sea and God, and whatever deities watched over Captain Jack Sparrow. His Jack.

* * *

It was dark where he was. Pitch bloody black. Black as ink. It stank too. Stank of fear and sweat and piss and shit. Jack knew that smell. Knew it and hated it. Prisons smelled like that. Not Fort Charles’ clean little cells, but real prisons. Prison ships and slave ships smelled like it too, and given the salty tang the smell had, he’d wager he was on one of them. For the life of him, though, he couldn’t remember why.

That was most likely due to the egg-sized lump on the back of his head. He touched the spot and faltered when his hand came away wet. “Easy now. Mustn’t pass out, ole boy. You have to think. Why are you here?”

The darkness spun around him a few times and then settled. He pressed himself against the wood of hull, letting the rocking of ship sooth him. It always did.

“Right, then. It’s a ship. I’m on a stinky ship. Confirmed. Still don’t know how I got on the ship, but one thing at a time. One thing at a time.” Jack started talking. Thinking out loud, really. He often found it helpful. “Have to think; have to start at the beginning. In the beginning, God created the universe... no, that’s too far back. Have to start at a more recent beginning. The Pearl, the Pearl. Will is bothering me about something... and... OH, THAT RUDDY STUPID WOMAN!!”

Elizabeth. Will’s wife had wanted to steer. At first there were only two people allowed to man the wheel of the Pearl. Him and Anamaria. But Anamaria had been neglecting her duties ever since that cello player and his oversized fiddle had joined them.

The pair had started their little romance as soon as the musicians had boarded in Havana. Jack didn’t care; Anamaria was free to make eyes at whomever she liked. In fact, he liked it; cause he got to steer again and he loved being at the helm of his Pearl. So all this was really Anamaria’s fault, when you came right down to it. Maybe Gibbs was right about women being bad luck on ships.

The affair had escalated until the man had quit his job playing for McTavish to follow the woman. It was a move that much angered his employer. Not only was he losing a member of his much-coveted quartet, but he was also losing him to a pirate and a Negro! And the man was Scots. The cellist that is, same as McTavish. So he felt it was an attack to everything his narrow mind believed in.

He said as much, too. Something about ‘the terrible crime of a countryman giving into the seduction of some black whore’. The words were barely out of his mouth before Mrs. Turner pounced. He and Will had both taken a step back and let the lady go.

Elizabeth ripped the man from stem to stern. Starting with his lumpy, and louse infested guest beds, through the immorality of his wealth, and finally to the audacity of his wandering hands. This last revelation produced a red flush of anger in William that might have led to the blacksmith challenging the braggart had Jack not stepped forward.

“Anamaria is my responsibility, Mr. McTavish. She is a valuable member of my crew. If you’ve got a problem with her, talk to me.” The man looked as though he was about to say something, but Jack cut him off. “Just remember, mate, she’s a free woman. I can’t control her if she takes it in her head to rally your slaves to rise up and burn your pretty house to the ground. Being pirates and all, it’s hard to know what we’ll do. Oh, sorry. Privateers.”

The man had blinked at his wolfish grin. “But you cannot. You are bound by the Letter of Marque not to raze English ports.”

“This is a port? I thought it was a house. That’s the trouble with being a common sailor like myself. No understanding of complicated legal terms.” He’d shaken his head in mock sadness. “Anyway, only my name is on that letter, so if she opts not to honor it...” 

Oh, McTavish hadn’t liked that. Had not liked it at all. All he could do, though, was sputter and stammer. 

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. McTavish. You will understand if we do not call again. And I will give your regards to my father; he will very much want an account of our stay.” Elizabeth’s words were cold, her eyes narrowed frightfully. The three of them left without another word. Until they were in the carriage bound for the dock, that was.

“That disgusting old lecher! Where did he touch you? Turn the coach around. I’ll cut his filthy hands off!” Will slammed his fist against the wall of the carriage, his eyes black with anger.

“Easy now, lad. You’d likely just end up in a jail cell and then where would Elizabeth be, eh?” Jack had watched the woman in question looking anywhere but at her husband.

“You wouldn’t back me?” Anger shifted to shock in those brown eyes. Eyes that were, in truth, too much like those of Will’s father for Jack’s comfort.

“Course I would. Hold him down while you did the cutting. But then you really would have to turn pirate, and I don’t think your bride is too keen on that idea.” Jack smirked at Elizabeth.

The girl smiled. “Thank you, Jack, but I can speak for myself.” She turned to her husband of barely a month. “William Turner, I am not a pretty bauble that you have to protect from being manhandled. I did manage to fight Mr. McTavish off very well by myself, thank you.”

Will looked at his wife. “Of course you did. I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to imply that you needed protecting.”

The newlyweds then commenced to be sickeningly adorable at each other. Jack found it hard to stand considering how far away his sweetheart was. It didn’t get any better back on the Black Pearl. Instead of just one love struck couple to deal with, he now had two.

Anamaria’s cellist was now a member of his crew. The man swore he’d pull his weight and Anamaria defended her Conner fiercely.

“If a Captain could have his lady aboard, then I can have my man.” She’d said defiantly. 

Jack had smirked at his helmswoman; the customs of the Code and a Captain’s right to a mistress were long honored. “Aye, but you’re not a Captain.”

“And he’s not a lady.” Gibbs interjected, his sidelong glance at Jack conveying that he wasn’t referring to Conner alone.

The new man was eager to please, Jack had to give him that. And nights on the Pearl were a damn sight more pleasant with some music aboard. Conner had brought his cello and a fiddle, along with and had proved a clever hand with both. He proved equally clever with Anamaria, if the music she made in the night was any indication.

Jack was being driven mad by it. Across the stateroom, just opposite his own cabin, Will and Elizabeth were christening his guestroom as well as their bonny marriage. Under him, somewhere in the below deck crew quarters, Conner was playing his helmswoman like a virtuoso. 

And all Jack could do was conjure the image of his James, pretty blue uniform hanging haphazardly open as he came forward to capture his pirate in a forceful embrace. Capture him and claim him, strip the clothes from him and ravish him in James’ office, or bedroom, or on the Pearl, or anywhere, bugger all!!

So in this advanced state of frustration, Jack found he had the helm back. Anamaria was spending most her time teaching her man how to be a sailor. Given Jack’s distracted mind, he was hardly in a state to properly handle the wheel of his ship. And that’s when he got the lovely idea to teach Will how to steer.

Bootstrap had been his helmsman, hadn’t he? It was in the kid’s blood, probably a natural. And yes, William proved a quick study, though teaching him to man the helm was a lot less fun than teaching his father to do it. But then he wasn’t trying to get into his pupil’s trousers this time. 

With Will, Anamaria, and himself rotating shifts at the helm, the trip was running smoothly. They might just beat the worst of the winter storms to Boston. Then it happened. 

Will’s query was innocent, a simple request. Elizabeth wanted to learn the helm. It was simple, really. She wanted to earn her keep on the Pearl, like everyone else. Girl was likely bored. He’d be bored, if all he had to do all day was watch his man work a ship and sunbathe. 

On second thought, no, he wouldn’t. He’d be elated, overjoyed just to get the chance to see James in his element again. The Commodore had been so proud and sure on the Dauntless while they chased after Barbossa and his lot. So commanding. Damn handsome too, though at the time he hadn’t been willing to admit that he’d noticed.

Maybe Elizabeth got less pleasure from such things than him. By the by, after hearing the request about a dozen times, Jack folded. He had always been too soft a touch by half. A trusting sort, rare in a pirate. And so, Will started to give his bride lessons at the wheel.

She did all right at first, but where Will seemed born to steer a ship, Mrs. Turner was another matter. They ended up scraping over every bloody rock for ten miles up the coast of the Rhode Island colony.

Jack was livid. Elizabeth was mortified, and Will was apologizing to everyone.

And how had this gotten him in the dark belly of a stinky ship? Simple enough. They’d sailed to Newport for repairs. Both the hull and the rudder had taken more damage than Will, Marty, or their carpenter, Taggert, could fix easily. They were taking on water and starting to list, and Jack was fit to be tied.

He’d stifled it, however, held back his anger since he liked Elizabeth. She was a good woman with many talents; seamanship just wasn’t one of them. Really wasn’t her fault, anyway. A proper Captain would have taken sole command of the helm, not delegated authority while distracting himself with pleasant fantasies of his lover and engaging in self-abuse until he went cross-eyed. 

Lucky for Jack that Gibbs had spent time in Newport before, and knew whom to trust with the task. They were stuck, though, with October’s chill coming down on them.

Once in Newport with repairs under way, tedium got the better of Jack. Elizabeth presented herself and her husband to the Royal Governor. He didn’t know her father directly, but they moved in the same circles, so were promptly invited to stay at his townhouse. The crew found lodging and company where they might, but Jack stayed rooted to his ship most nights.

He’d had enough of fops, so he declined Elizabeth’s offer to join them. Many of the lads invited him to join them in merrymaking, but Jack never stayed for long. Dockside taverns offered nothing for him but temptation. Gibbs scowled at him every time he begged off from the revelries; he knew why his Captain was returning to his empty cabin at night rather than picking up a companion for the evening. 

The crew was beginning to get it too, though they still had not an idea who he was being true to. Tearlach had gone so far as to shout that she had better be worth the trouble, whoever she was. Jack had grinned and put his hands on his hips rakishly. “Who says it’s a girl, mate? Might be I’m pining for you, Tearly, my boy.”

Laughter filled the public house as Tearlach batted his lashes at Jack and apologized for the wench on his lap. Jack had issued a melodramatic sigh. “I’ll just have to learn to live with rejection, it seems.”

Amidst more laughter, he slipped out to return to the Pearl, locked himself in his quarters, and uttered quiet moans while pleasuring himself to the image of smiling green eyes and James’ fine, strong body. Four nights of it while the ship was repaired. One night less than he’d had with James. It had been at least a month since he’d held his lover. Or any lover, for that matter. Longer than he’d gone since he was fourteen he’d wager. Well, longer than he’d gone voluntarily at least. 

It was funny. James’ hadn’t asked him to be faithful. He was just compelled to it. The idea didn’t even occur to him to bed someone else. In Jamestown, when a wench had sat in his lap without warning, he’d ignored her till she found a more willing prospect. The lads had stared; shocked to see their Captain, normally as much a libertine as the rest of them, ignore a pretty maid in his lap. He’d shrugged and said she wasn’t his type. 

And no, she wasn’t. His type was broad shouldered and looked right dashing in a blue coat and ruffles. His type had sea-green eyes and a dry wit. His type was back in Port Royal, hopefully as befuddled and lonely as he was. And if he wasn’t? Now that thought had caused a flood of jealousy that prompted him to ask Elizabeth if she knew of James’ having any sweethearts in Port Royal.

She’d blinked at him. “I don’t recall him courting anyone but me. My father did wonder about the widow Fowler, but that’s just because he’s been interested in her for years and always thinks every other man in the world is yearning for the same woman he is. Odd, though. Now that you mention it, I did wonder if he’d found someone recently. Since just before the wedding, he’s been so much more positive.”

Oh, the glow at that caused. He knew why James had changed. Because of him. First the fantasy of him, and then the reality. That little revelation justified his sudden bout of fidelity. James was a changed man because he had wanted him back; even just wanting him alone had made him happier. His lover had told him as much already, but hearing it from someone else was too wonderful.

So that night, the fifth night in Newport, he’d gone out with Gibbs and the other lads. Temptation be damned! He could have a fine time drinking and flirting, confident that he’d return alone to his ship without even the slightest bit of worry that he’d stray. They went to The White Horse, a lovely big tavern run by the sister of a retired pirate. Yes, there was ale and rum flowing. Yes, there were pretty serving girls, with big tits. And yes, there was merriment and revelry aplenty. And Jack had fun. He flirted a bit, but rebuffed the lass politely and got a round of teasing from his mates.

“Well, I think it’s sweet. You don’t often see a man at sea being true to his love. You’re a good man, Captain Sparrow. A prince among pirates.” She kissed him chastely on the cheek then and supplied him with on-the-house drinks for the rest of the night. She also took his advice and started flirting with Gibbs, who could use a good night. When he finally left, the lass was on his first mate’s lap, playing with his beard. 

And here things started to get fuzzy. He was drunk and happy, walking along the streets of Newport toward the dock with Cotton. Never a talkative sort, Cotton didn’t join Jack as he belted out his favorite song to the stars. The parrot did, though.

“We kindle and char inflame and ignite  
Drink up me hearties, yo ho  
We burn up the city we're really a fright  
Drink up me hearties, yo ho…

He’d barely started on the second verse when the parrot squawked loudly. “Dead men tell no tales.”

Jack was on his guard fast, but not fast enough. The parrot’s warning had come a moment too late. And that’s where the lump on the back of his head was from. Someone had hit him and all went black. All was still black.

“Bloody fucking hell.” Who would have jumped him? Lots of people held a grudge against Captain Jack Sparrow, but none stupid enough to try and capture him. Most would just kill him. Yet here he was, alive on a ship, a moving ship, bound for somewhere. He wondered suddenly if Mr. Cotton was well. He’d hate to lose such a fine member of his crew. The parrot included.

So he knew how he got here, just not why. Quickly, carefully, he checked himself for injuries other than the one on his head. Everything else seemed in place. He was short one hat, one coat, one sword, one pistol, two boots and one boot knife. Damn, and that knife was new, too. Will had made it for him as a gift for being his best man. “Not bloody fair.”

Using the bulkhead to brace himself, Jack walked around the room. He ran his hands over the wall, looking for anything that might tell him about the ship he was in. His fingers kept meeting chains and metal rings set in the wood. A slave ship. He fought back the rush of nausea at the idea. At least he was alone in the room. He didn’t think he could have stomached it if there were anyone else sharing his cell with him. He was alone. No slaves, and no Cotton, either. So they weren’t just the victims of a press gang. It was personal. 

After a bit, a he found the edges of a door, bolted fast. Couldn’t even dig a fingernail ‘tween the door and the jamb. Jack cursed. He’d kept telling himself after his last adventure with Barbossa that he should start carrying a picklock, or a folding knife, or something. The boot knife had been the most he’d done so far. Apparently it wasn’t enough.

He slumped down to the floor, leaning against the door. He’d just have to wait. it seemed. Wait till something happened. Jack started humming, then singing. Anything to break the stillness.

The door suddenly started moving against his back and Jack rolled away to crouch, facing it, ready to spring on whoever walked through. 

“You awake in here, Mr. Jack?” 

A familiar voice with a thick Magyar accent startled Jack. That he hadn’t thought of. “Sami?”

The door opened wider and a lantern rose to reveal a short, thin, ratty man with dark curls and clean-shaven face. “Ello, Jack. Captain Dylan requests your presence.”

Jack sat for a moment, staring at the man, then stood and brushed himself off nonchalantly. “Very well, if I must.”

The Hungarian nodded and turned to walk out of the room. Jack followed, and as Sami led him through the ship his eyes darted about everywhere, trying to commit it all to memory. It was hard to do by the light of the oil lamp, however. “So, still following him around like a puppy, I take it?”

“Yes, Jack. I, unlike yourself, have a sense of loyalty.” Sami’s voice was cool, the look he gave over his shoulder scathing. 

“Oh, I’m loyal, to those who deserve loyalty, at least. Sometimes the only way to combat a betrayal is with betrayal.” Jack reached up to check the bump on his head again. Not bleeding anymore, which was good since Dylan Maurer was like a shark. He could smell blood. “Think I could get a bit of medical attention. One of you lot gave me a nasty knock, and I’d hate to swoon in front of the Captain.”

“Don’t worry. Captain Maurer’s personal surgeon will see to you afterwards. First, your audience.” Sami set down his lantern and started to climb up a ladder. Jack followed, the sudden shift in lighting making his head fuzzy. He covered it best he could, showing weakness wouldn’t do at all. 

They walked across the deck with members of the crew watching them. Some were familiar to Jack, others were not. Either way they all gave him the same feral grins. A fresh victim for their crazed leader was always a good time. Jack wondered again how he’d ever stomached being a mate on Dylan’s last ship. But as Sami opened the doors to the Captain’s rather large and ornate audience chamber, and Jack’s eyes found the man sitting in a rather outlandish overstuffed armchair, like a bleed’n throne, he remembered.

The beautiful face lit up with a smile that always edged on the sinister. Between that smile and the man’s icy blue eyes, the shark comparison was dead accurate. Jack knew in the instant before Dylan spoke that he was in very deep shit.

“Jack Sparrow. How wonderful to see you alive.”

* * *

Gibbs was in a state. He’d had a truly lovely night in the company of young Katie, and had returned to the Pearl in a lively mood. He intended to thank Jack for giving the lass the push in his direction, but the man wasn’t on deck like he’d expected. The shipwright had said the repairs would likely finish that day, so Gibbs thought it likely his Captain to be out cracking the whip. 

He wasn’t, but Gibbs chose to let him sleep rather than check his cabin. That is, until Mr. Cotton’s parrot flew to him near-shrieking, followed by a battered and bloody Cotton. The man stumbled aboard and start franticly flailing his arms about for attention. The parrot seemed to suddenly find his voice and squawk ‘Captain Jack, Captain Jack, Captain Jack...’ over and over. Jack had been trying to teach the bird his name all through the trip. 

Gibbs sent Anamaria off to fetch the Turners after he threw open the Captain’s cabin to find Jack’s bed not slept in. Cotton, still frantic, followed Gibbs into the stateroom to snatch paper, and a piece of graphite Jack used to mark maps with, off the desk. The man couldn’t write, but on Jack’s request, Gibbs had been trying to teach him some picture writing at least, some form of communication other than a parrot. 

The sketch was rough but it was Jack, wild hair and all, being jumped by five figures. Someone had taken him, kidnapped him. The question was who? Not a press gang, surely, or slavers. If it had been, they would have taken Cotton, too.

The Turners arrived with a doctor in tow. The surgeon saw to Cotton’s injuries as Gibbs called the crew to counsel on the deck.

“Right, everyone has heard by now. Jack’s gone missing, and from the look of things, not by choice. Cotton drew this.” He passed the paper to Anamaria who looked over it before passing it on. 

It moved round the group till finding Will’s hands. “Not much to go on, is there?”

“No. But that don’t change a thing. There’s not a man or woman here that would leave Jack to this. Is there?” Gibbs cast an accusing look around the crew. He was pleased to see heads shaking and hear a doze or more no’s. “Well, now, what we need to do is start looking.”

Gibbs started assigning tasks around. Some stayed on board to continue repairs, others went out to search the docks for news or any sign of their Captain. Will and Elizabeth he pulled into the stateroom, after he’d sent the rest to work. He shut the doors behind them and gave the couple a worried look. 

“Mr. Gibbs. I could try and speak to the Royal Governor, to see if there have been any other recent disappearances.” Elizabeth supplied, at loss for why Gibbs had led them into the room.

“Aye, you do that, miss. I’m sure Jack was waylaid, though, by someone intending to take him and him alone. Cotton would be dead, or lost, too, otherwise. No, he was left to tell the tale of Captain Jack Sparrow’s taking.” Gibbs scowled; he didn’t like what he was about to ask. “Can we get word to Norrington?”

Will blinked at the other man. “What? Why? You don’t think the Commodore had anything to do with this, do you? Or the Navy?” 

“No, lad. Jack’s Letter of Marque was approved by the Royal Governor, weren’t it? More like we’ve got a hunter trying to collect on an old bounty, or an old enemy. No, I was just thinking we might need the Commodore’s help...” Gibbs couldn’t think of a better lie, but he couldn’t reveal Jack’s secret to the Turners. If Jack wanted them to know it, he’d have told them. “Something’s not right about this. I’ve a bad feeling in my gut and can’t think of a better plan. Your Norrington might.”

“He’s not my Norrington, Mr. Gibbs.” Elizabeth interlaced her arm with her husband’s, as though to remind him to what man she now belonged. 

Gibbs looked at the twinned-together arms and sighed. “That I know, miss. I know it too bloody well.”

Hours passed. The repairs were declared finished and Gibbs paid the shipwright out of Jack’s ship fund. They should have been setting sail even now for Boston; it was only a few days journey yet. But they weren’t. They were stuck. No word of Jack came back with the crewmen looking for him, no hope to brighten the gloom that had descended on the Pearl. 

Elizabeth came back from the Governor’s with no news. She’d spoken to a few Naval Captains at the house as well, but none had a quick way to reach Port Royal and James. Gibbs was a wreck. The boatswain had convinced him to go aloft and help inspect some of the riggings when it looked like he might crawl into a bottle of rum. 

Twilight was falling when a clear, pretty voice rose up from the docks. “Joshamee?”

Gibbs smiled suddenly and hopped down from the yard he was balanced on to welcome the visitor. “Katie lass, what brings ya?”

The young woman walked up the ramp, taking Gibbs’ hand as she reached the top. “I heard about Jack. ” She bit her lip. Rather prettily, Gibbs thought.

“Aye, tis a dark thing that’s happened.” Gibbs looked sternly down at his feet. The bottle was calling him again.

“I... I have to tell you something. Last night... after Jack was so gallant, a man at another table asked about him, asked if he was the famous Captain Jack Sparrow. I didn’t think anything of it. I mean Jack is sort of famous.” Katie bit her lip again and gave Gibbs a pleading look.

“Aye, he is. Who was he, Katie?”

“His name is Brock. He was with a private party in the back room, but he comes into the common room to visit with Anne when they use the room. I don’t know the rest of ‘em as only certain girls serve them. But after I told him it was Jack Sparrow, he went back into the room, and a little bit later he and two other men came out to watch Jack leave. Oh, Joshamee. Anne says they’re pirates. Not like you are. Cruel ones who smuggle slaves and hurt people. Some of the girls refuse to serve their parties because they get wild. Jenny said they tried to... to”

The girl was babbling, frightfully. Gibbs pulled her to his chest and soothed her. “There, now, no need for that. Just tell me what you can. It’ll help Jack, I’m sure of it.” 

A few of the crew had started watching the exchange, which prompted Gibbs to growl and tell them to shove off. After she stopped shaking, Katie wiped a few tears away. “I’m sorry. It’s just I...”

“No need to explain, Katie, me girl. Now, this fellow that came out to look at Jack. What was he like?”

She shuddered. “Terrible. Every time I see him come into the tavern, I feel ill.”

Gibbs chuckled. “That ugly, eh?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Beautiful. Frighteningly beautiful, with awful, pale blue eyes. Mary hates him, but he pays too well for her to turn away. They always come for private parties when they have successful run. Anne boasts about what her Brock brings her from their voyages.”

“Hmm. You only know this Brock by name?” Gibbs was growing more worried. This was beginning to sound familiar, somehow.

“Yes. Only Mary and the girls who serve the parties know the captain’s name.”

Gibbs sighed. “Then we should pay Mary a visit. I have a feeling I can persuade her to give up that name.”

Without a word of explanation to the crew, Gibbs pulled a large chunk of coin from the ship’s main fund and left with Katie. They took a carriage to The White Horse, something Gibbs hadn’t done in years. He was anxious. If this man was who he feared he was, Jack was in a lot of trouble.

The tavern was full of merrymaking patrons, fighting the hastening cold of October with liquor and lasses. Mary Nichols, proprietress of The White Horse, was reluctant at first to leave the common room for a private conversation. Flashing a bit of shine changed her mind though.

“So, Mr. Gibbs, how can I help you?”

“Ya recall last night, I was here with my Captain, Jack Sparrow. The Captain saw someone he thought was an old friend and asked if I could check it for him. Handsome fellow, pale blue eyes.” Gibbs wasn’t about to give out the full story.

“Nonsense. I’ve already heard about your Captain going missing. One of your crew was here earlier to ask after him. Katie brought you here, didn’t she?” Mrs. Nichols wasn’t a fool; that was for certain.

“Aye.”

“She’s afraid of him. They all are, a bit. Listen, Mr. Gibbs, I don’t like that lot, but I can’t just be given out names. That’s no way to run a business.” Mary filled a small clay pipe with tobacco and lit it.

“Aye, I understand.” Gibbs took the pouch from his inner coat pocket and upended it, letting the gold coins pile onto the table in a jingling cascade. Mary blinked and reached out to finger one of the coins. “There’s more where that came from, since you’ll be need’n to be compensated for the customers you’re bound to be losing.” 

“You really must love Jack Sparrow.”

“Begging your pardon, Ma’am, Jack’s the best Captain I ever had, and I’m not the only one who thinks it. Most of his crew loves him.” And hopefully one Navy Commodore does, too.

“Right.” She scooped up the coins. “Dylan Maurer, captains the Osprey. He’s a bloody bastard, the sort that likes hurting people. I wouldn’t serve him at all, but he’s an old associate of my brother. You can have him, though, and good riddance.” She spat on the floor to seal the curse.

Damn. Gibbs had been hoping it wasn’t him. Captain Dylan Maurer. When he was in his cups, and it took a lot of cups to get Jack that drunk, he spoke of Dylan. The tales weren’t always the clearest, but they were unpleasant never the less. Whatever their relationship had been, -- lovers, rivals, simple Captain and crewman -- it had ended badly.

He left Mrs. Nichols, thanking her and promising a second pouch of gold for her trouble. He returned to the ship in a foul humor, catching Will as he boarded. “Lad, we have to send word to Norrington.”

“What did you learn? Is it bad?” Will was a bundle of nervous energy; he fiddled with near everything on Jack’s desk after they entered the stateroom. 

“Aye, very. Jack’s been taken by a man named Dylan Maurer, an old mate of his. I don’t know the whole story, but they had a falling out. From what little Jack has said, it was bad.” Gibbs sat down, pulling out paper and a quill. He looked over the tools and sighed. He had to write this letter. Only he knew of Jack and Norrington’s affair, so he’d have to write to tell the man that his lover was in danger. “Bugger all. Get me the pigeon with the green leg ring, lad.”

Will brought the bird to the desk and put it in the cage there, worry evident on his face. “Will it reach him?”

“I bloody hope so. This is the bird trained to yer father-in-law’s house. You or Elizabeth should write a page to him by way of introduction. Tell him to give this to the Commodore. I fear we’ll be needing Navy help here.”

 

To be continued…


End file.
